


Tunnel of Love

by a_mere_trifle



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-05
Updated: 2010-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-10 23:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_mere_trifle/pseuds/a_mere_trifle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the indeterminate future. The dancefloor's like a carnival, and you're the ringmaster of the year. You're gonna catch the right person's eye, someday, and everything's gonna change. Maybe that's gonna be tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tunnel of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Was working on another song-meme challenge when one song demanded a longer treatment than I could give it within the rules. If you listen to it, you'll probably see why-- it's [Tunnel of Love, by Dire Straits](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rXf1ohjxoPY&feature=fvsr). It _is_ a story-- everything else is adding details.

_in a screaming ring of faces, i seen her standing in the light  
she had a ticket for the races, yeah, just like me she was a victim of the night_

The dancefloor's like a goddamn carnival and you're the ringmaster of the year, dropping your beats like the god of all turntables. The crowd appreciates it, even if your boss doesn't, but fuck him, you'll be out of town by next weekend anyway. You're hopping shit gig to shit gig, been at it for years now, and you never know where you're gonna be from one night to the next, but you've always got a sense of where you are.

There's something you're working toward. Someday you're gonna get recognized, make it as big as you deserve to be, and that's probably what you're trying to do, catch someone's eye. You've got a feeling that someday, someone's gonna be in one of these dark-ass clubs. The right person's gonna be listening and everything will change.

You got five minutes till your set ends. Well, 4:43:11 but you know damn well you're the only one counting. Took you a while to figure out not everyone else has your way with time, not everyone else feels rhythm the way you do-- drums like a heartbeat, time like the blood through your veins. Probably you hit your head as a kid; you think you remember something about stairs.

You glance up into the writhing crowd and there's someone out there, near the back of the room, apart from the crowd but unafraid. They look up, and they're caught in the flash of the disco ball this fucktard has for christ knows what reason. Long, dark hair, round glasses, a t-shirt that's blue or green. No way in hell she's with a record company but she's looking at you now with a secretive smile.

4:13:13.

Yeah, she's looking at you, all right, and she wouldn't be the first chick to hit on you at one of these things but she'd be the first one to do it sober. There's something shy and flirtatious about her grin, sure, that little overbite of hers, but she doesn't duck her head away; her chin's held high.

There's something weirdly knowing about the girl, and you turn your head back down to your work, something strange circling in the depths of your mind. Part of you has a strange feeling she's gonna be a problem; another has a strange feeling she's gonna be a solution. And fuck, there's no reason they can't _both_ be right, but there's one thing that's not worth arguing: something big is going down tonight.

You find the music turning around you, not quite deliberately, spinning a little sweeter, lilting and curling and posing deep questions with answers short and sweet. The bass stays just as strong, the beat keeps its time, shaking through the heart of you, and somehow-- somehow it works.

You've heard this song before, you can't remember where. Like a force of goddamn nature, like the spinning of the world, it doesn't feel like you're writing it: it feels like you're hearing it, like it's always been at the back of everything, like it was never really gone.

You look up, and she's coming toward you; the crowd doesn't seem to notice her, but they part anyway, until she's leaning over the tables, with a grin that's too honest to be properly flirtatious.

"Hi," she says.

"'Sup," you answer, though you know you probably shouldn't be encouraging her. Your turn your head down to your records.

"You're really cool," she says.

"No shit."

"Way too cool for this place," she says, and she makes it sound like like simple truth.

"Also in breaking news. OJ did it." You look up, taking her measure. She's still grinning, like she's never doubted anything in her life, especially not you.

"So," she says, aiming for flirtatious and only reaching adorable. "Wanna ditch this scene?"

You don't know this chick, you're low on cash, and your mouth opens to say no before another, stronger part of you tells you not to be a dumbass. Shit like this doesn't even happen, not most of the time. You don't let it go.

"...Sure, what the fuck," you say. "But the second you get all Fatal Attraction on my ass I'm dropping you cold. Don't care if you're a girl."

"Do so," she says, with a giggle. In a strange way-- you think it looks like she can do flirtatious after all.

"The fuck are you, thirteen?" you murmur, mostly to yourself, spinning the music toward its end. She's not, though. Might act pretty similar but there's something older in her eyes. That, and ain't no thirteen-year-old built like that.

Maybe. Maybe. There's something going down, and it's probably you.

You finish out the song, and start packing up your gear-- you've had enough practice by now that it doesn't take long.

"Dude, I paid for--" says the owner, coming up in his crap-ass neon suit; doesn't it figure he'd choose now to show up.

"Shit, you already screwed me on the fees, I say we fucking call it even."

"What the fuck do you--"

You glare at him, and he shuts up, like most people do when you glare at them. Apparently people find you pretty intimidating, ever since you were a kid. You could stare down bullies in middle school, you could go anywhere in town-- which was good, because you fucking had to. After the cops came down on your brother you had to use all the skill you had.

And that's how you've been living ever since.

The girl pulls at your elbow; you follow, slinging your jacket over your shoulder.

"God," she giggles, "I almost forgot, you really really _are that cool_. Do you do this often?"

"What, turn tables in shitty dumps or let random chicks take me out on the town?"

"I meant the first, but now that you mention it..."

"All the goddamn time," you say. "It's what I do."

"The turning tables, right? And the going out on the town?"

"...Not a lot," you answer. It's embarassing, but it's better than the whole truth, which is not at all.

She laughs again. "Then you definitely don't know this town, right?"

"Shit, I been here two days, won't be here two more."

"Good. Then I can show you around!"

You want to ask what the hell the point of that is but something else tells you not to bother. She's on a roll, now, telling you how this bookstore is the sweetest place and the nice people at this shop make the best coffee and this bar makes the best martinis oh my god--

"You a student?" you ask, deciding to get a word in edgewise; you know this is a college town, you can tell them by how.

"Well, I was until today!"

You frown. "What, it's graduation already? Shit, I never remember these things, is that usually in April?"

"It is for me, anyway!" She spins around, points you toward the oldest building in town, all college-gothic and mortar and brick. You don't like towers, they all seem too goddamn phallic to you-- built to intimidate, to impose, and it kind of creeps you the fuck out.

"I think it's elegant..." she says. "But I think I know what you mean."

She smiles, like she knows you better than you know yourself, and you wonder. There's something weird about the chick--

"Shit, have I even asked your name yet?" you realize.

"No. And I'm not telling, either."

"Huh?"

She winks. "It's a secret," she says.

"The hell?"

"You don't like secrets?"

"Not really," you say.

"You don't like keeping them?"

"Just 'cause I do it doesn't mean I like it."

"...True." She smiles, softly. "C'mon, I know this coffee bar."

"It's the middle of the night..."

"And don't you want to stay awake?"

You do. You really do.

It's a crappy college hangout, like you suspected, all plants and wicker and indie music and pillows; oppressive, to anyone who's never been to college and probably never will, but after the first couple minutes you don't even remember that.

Maybe it's goddamn contagious, whatever the fuck is wrong with her. Everything looks a little brighter, flows a little easier, feels a little more familiar-- weird as she's acting, nothing about it really _surprises_ you, and sure, there's not much that does anymore, but--

This is what it comes down to: she acts like she knows you, and you almost believe it.

"Maybe I shouldn't be doing this," she says, "but I can, so I am, and I don't really care what anyone says. It's allowed. Just barely, but it's allowed."

"See, some people do this thing," you say. "They call it 'making an ounce of goddamn sense'. Technically I guess it's optional but it's pretty popular. Ever thought about giving it a shot?"

"_Neveeer_," she giggles, not taken aback in the slightest. "Why on earth would I want to do something silly like that?"

She leans forward, chin propped in her hands, smiling softly, and any sadness in her eyes has got to be an illusion. Nothing about tonight has made sense, especially the part where it feels like everything suddenly _does_, everything in the world. You don't know what she wants, you don't know what she's asking for, and maybe she isn't; maybe she doesn't need to ask for anything more than this.

Or maybe that's all bullshit, whether she believes it or not. Maybe she wants more. Maybe she needs it.

"Hell," you say, "I think you're right."

And you kiss her; and sure enough, she kisses back.

-

Because it's insane, you spend ten minutes in the morning before opening your eyes trying to remember the layout of the apartment, trying to plot the best way to leave without a word. You don't remember much of it, so it takes a lot of concentration, which is your only excuse for why it takes you ten goddamn minutes to figure out _she's not there_.

You run your hand over the rough white pillowcase; there's no strands of long dark hair, it's not even warm. The sheets are still rumpled, but she's gone, without a trace.

This should make everything simpler. This should solve everything.

One inexplicable night. Maybe it never even happened; maybe someone slipped something in your drink. It probably didn't happen, and anyway, anyone with any sense would just forget it, move on out of town.

But you think you understand, now. Truth is, you don't make a bit of goddamn sense either, and everything else was just pretend.

You move to sit up, and realize there's something in your hand. You open it up; there's a gold band, studded by four-- pearls? No, they're not pearls, through the color and size and shape are right.

You've seen this ring before. You _know_ it, for sure.

_I don't make sense, either,_ you think, and you remember that one of the buildings she showed you on your tour was the local library.

It's a few minutes before they open, but you get on the computers without any trouble once they do. You bring up your email account and Notepad, pasting in every city you remember having ever been in-- there's a fifteen minute limit, but you think you've got most of them. Then you head to the reference section and drag out an atlas so heavy you could kill people with it, taping together some paper you stole from the printer to fit the giant pages. You can kind of see through it if you press it really close, and this isn't gonna be exact, anyway.

You pick up a red marker and begin playing connect-the-dots.

And yeah, it's not long before the lines turn into pictures-- concentric circles, not perfect but pretty fucking close. Like a search pattern... like a vinyl record.

You've always known it; someday, the right person will be listening, and everything will change.

It doesn't make sense, but it makes sense of everything.

You step out of the library, a record sketched in red marker on a crumpled piece of scrap paper in your hand, a long-forgotten bus ticket in your pocket. Whatever else is true, this is: you've been looking for something, all this time.

You slip the ring onto your finger, watching it catch the light for a moment before you clench your fist.

You know what you're looking for, now. And you _are_ going to find it.


End file.
